House of the Dead
by Meep meep
Summary: Every family has a story a tortured legend, if you will. And there's nothing more tortured than the Malfoy's story. And only Draco is left to tell it...but can he survive long enough to? WARNING character death, abuse, violent pasts and accute slash
1. dreams

_Disclaimer: I don't own the familiar blah blih blah not mines blah blih blah._

_A.N.: this will get gory people. Contains horrific pasts and not much better futures. Italics are flashbacks, bolds are thoughts._

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_A small baby. Draco rocks the baby 'Sssssssssssh, baby, sssssssssssssssh' he turns his face to look into the shadows. He can see the thin line on the baby's neck. It's blood. _

'_Baby won't cry any more. Baby won't ever cry again.' Draco looks at the baby in his arms. The look on his face is unreadable. _

_Draco hands the baby to the shadows and looks around the room. There are babies spread all over the floor. He picks up the next – a little baby girl in a pink dress. _

'_The world won't ever hear her whine again. She won't grow into a horrible brat with a marital arrangement.' He throws her to join the last and picks up another._

'_And he won't be her husband.'_

_It carries on every baby gets words on their behalf. Every baby follows the next into the shadows. _

_Every baby slowly disappears, the floor clearing until only one baby is left. It's eyes open, and it begins to wail. _

'_One left. No more today.'_

_Draco looks at the baby and draws a knife. Taking it to the baby's throat he begins the incision. _

'_Don't cry baby. Everything's all right now.' He smiles._

Draco's eyes flew open, as he gasped to breathe. What was happening to him?


	2. suspension

_Disclaimer: as I'm sure I've said already, the familiar characters are NOT mine. I do however take full credit for the plotline and any original characters found throughout the duration of this fic._

_A.N I'm really sorry that I haven't updated in forever, but it's all happening. I dedicate this to the original killer-pineapple, for the death threats that motivated me to continue, and to Grace, who did her best to stop said threats. Oh, one more thing, this has become Draco's point of view. Enjoy!_

The images will remain burnt on my mind forever. I close my eyes, and there they are. I haven't had these dreams before – but I have had ones like them. A long time ago.

I have seen things that no one should have seen. I am believed to be a believer. I am thought to have faith in their doctrine. To bet my life on it.

Perhaps I would have bet my life on it, once upon a time. But the lives of others? Never. I know the truth. Shit happens.

I lean my head against the cool porcelain. Retching, gagging as my head spins.

I can feel tears burning my eyes, but I do not let them fall. I remember my childhood well. I do not cry. That is a rule. That voice from ages past telling me this rule.

'Never cry… Malfoy's never cry… no son of mine…' I will never forget that voice, no matter how hard I try. It is the voice that haunts my memories.

The children… oh God the children. I throw up again, shaking as my soul rips itself out of my body and into the basin. Or at least, that is how it feels. This isn't me. I could never… it isn't me. With all the shit I've survived, with everything I've seen, everything I've felt, I am not a murderer. I will never be a murderer.

I am not my father.

I will not lower myself that far. I remember the 6 year old, screaming in the night. I remember the muffled tears and anguish of a 13 year old with the world on his shoulders. And it was such a heavy world for him to carry. The words of an 8 year old who knew she was about to die.

I could never wish my life on another. Not even Voldemort.

People believe I am evil, but I am not. I am simply disillusioned, hardened to the world that I was forced to stay in.

But with my life, had I not been hardened, constantly fearing, I would be dead. Although this half-life, this waiting for the inevitable is hardly living. It's a suspension I've been in since before my 7th birthday.

I have a feeling this suspension will be ending fairly soon.

And that thought scares me more than any other, even the dreams.


	3. sick pleasures

Disclaimer: see other chapters.

_They stand outside the windows, shadows lurking in the cover of darkness, letting the ammonia and burnt coffee scent of the child's fear wash over them._

_It's a struggle not to kill him right here, but they know the brat must live a little longer._

_The child is no threat to them, no challenge. Ten have passed before him in this, older, wiser, younger, faster. Skilled ones and weak ones have flashed out in front of this boy's eyes._

_The child is insolent, pathetic. The boy has understanding, but does not obey._

_The child won't get the chance to disobey again. They will not let it get that far. It won't last that long._

_They have never failed, and many more than ten have passed under their hands. But the child needn't know that._

_She laughs as the boy retches, weak from the dreams, and sways in mad delight. She has been such for a long time. She has waited to rid herself of this child for over ten years. It is the finale in an act that has been playing for a long time. Since She lost her first._

_And now it draws close to the curtain call._

_He stands and smiles at her obvious glee, exciting himself in her insane actions._

_He shoves Her against the wall, hard, delighting in the pain He has caused. The whelps fear clings to him, he can't wait any longer. He needs it now. He pounds into Her, slamming Her against the wall, growling in sick pleasure as Her fingernails shred His back._

_She comes raking Him apart. He buries himself in Her as the whelp screams in the room and He spills Himself into Her._

_It's taken the edge off, but he needs more. He needs to cause more pain._

_"We'll kill him soon." Luscius smiles as Her eyes glint in anticipation, and Her fingernails dig into His ribcage._

_"Soon." Narcissa smiles._

A.N. sorry it's so short, it'll get longerI swear!


	4. Tales of the past

Every family has its stories – the stories of love and lust, passion and betrayal, bastard children and baroness. Of murder.

Every family history has a murder in it – most of the time, these murders are plotted by power-hungry siblings, angry parents or bitter children.

It's usually the heir that gets it. If it's not the heir, it's the guardian or the favourite – the competition.

Every pure-blood or aristocratic house has an heirs room. In some cases, two people have inhabited it in one generation, because of a murder. In rarer cases, three people.

In my generation, it's seven. Seven people passed through the old oak doors across from me. Seven heirs sat on this bed, this iron frame. Stepped on this floor, unpacked into that wardrobe.

Five of those lives were taken in this room. Another in the room in the tower, up the old spiral staircase, and another on the roof. Or rather, somewhere between the roof and the ground.

Another dies in the bedroom on the first floor, small and comforting with feminine decorations and little girls' toys.

Two were taken in the nursery, with its sunshine yellow walls and cute baby's cradles.

But five were here, in this room. By this four-poster with dark green drapes and black throw. On this carpet, soft and green like grass, looking out into the world beyond through this very window.

All but the nursery girls stood in my way to becoming heir. Was it me who killed them? No, no. I wouldn't have even known how. I couldn't pull a trigger or wield a knife. I hadn't the strength to push someone from the roof or string them from the rafters. And what knowledge of poisons did I have? At six years old? None.

Boys that never grew into men, girls into women.

Ten people who could have changed lives, but never had the chance. Ten good, strong people to uphold the family name.

Why am I the only one left? Why is it that I survived to sleep in the heir's room when they did not?

Why is it that I'm still here? I don't know. But I feel that perhaps it won't be like this for very much longer. I can only wonder if this is a good or bad thing.

Every family has their stories; every heir has a tale to tell.

You could say that my tale is the worst. But my story is not yet complete, and I very much doubt it has a happy ending. My tale is long and fearful. But I will tell it.

You may not believe my words, but you must heed them. For this story is not just mine – it is also the story of nine before me, and to even comprehend the danger I am in, you must listen to their stories before mine.

Besides my memories, I have only one thing to recount the dark tale – a diary.

This diary holds words from the hands of my siblings – in almost all examples, their last.

These people were real. They are not my own invention; they were real people, flesh and blood, just like the rest of us.

Please, gods, whatever you do, do not cross the monsters of my past. No matter how hard you try, they will win. They always do.

And these monsters, these crazed beings who took away the lives of so many, are the hardest kind to fight. Because they're all to human.


End file.
